


(it was) Always You

by dreamsofdramione



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Divorced Hermione, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Harmony Christmas Advent, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, Pining, Roommates, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21768616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofdramione/pseuds/dreamsofdramione
Summary: It was always youFalling for meNow there's always timeCalling for meI'm the light blinking at the end of the roadBlink back to let me know-Hermione moves in with Harry after her divorce.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 237
Collections: Harmony Advent Collection 2019





	(it was) Always You

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note! While I do like Ron as a character, he is not very nice in this fic and I apologize. You probably won't like him here. I know some people don't care for Ron bashing so consider this your warning!
> 
> Inspired by the song [Always by Panic! at the Disco](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uWiRW0uJKk4).

_ When the world gets too heavy _

_ Put it on my back _

_ I'll be your levy _

_ You are taking me apart _

_ Like bad glue _

_ On a get well card _

* * *

At thirty years old, Hermione Granger had never expected to be divorced, living in her best friend’s guest room, and unemployed. Once upon a time, she’d had dreams. She’d had plans—big plans, too. But apparently, even the best-laid plans were no match for the sheer force of the twist fate had thrown her way.

December had always been her second favourite month. Second only to September for the memories of a castle cresting over a hill and the smell of fresh parchment. This year, however, December didn’t bring the typically warm, fuzzy feelings she’d associated with the holiday season. This year, December brought a standard Ministry owl with a divorce decree strapped to its leg. This year, December brought boxes upon boxes of everything she’d ever owned piled in a corner and shrunk out of sight in the dusty old guest room at Grimmauld Place.

“I’m heading out, ‘Mione.” Harry’s voice filtered through the heavy door, and Hermione swiped the cuff of her jumper just under her eyes, sucking in a breath and schooling her features.

“Have a good day at work, Harry,” she called, curling the duvet between her fingers and pulling it back up. 

It was chilly in the old house. Whispers of freezing wind sank through the thin walls, and she wandlessly summoned another blanket, retreating back into the cocoon of warmth and letting her eyes slip shut, blocking out reality for just one more day. 

* * *

It shouldn’t have been so hard. 

They’d been separated for months before the final agreement was presented, barely speaking a single word to one another without a solicitor involved. Missives were exchanged, properties were split, and arrangements were made months in advance of the final piece of parchment pinched between her fingers.

The lilting script of her married name stared back at her, elegant, curled, all fine and dainty where it sat upon the page—so very different from every other aspect of the divorce.

_ Hermione Jean Granger-Weasley  _

It should have been her first clue, really, the vehement refusal to give up her maiden name for his. Though, at the time, she’d stubbornly insisted it was nothing of the sort. Now she knew, and truthfully, a part of her had always known, it was far more than that.

Mourning the loss of her marriage wasn’t hard. Mourning the loss of the life she once thought she’d wanted more than anything else in the world wasn’t very difficult either. But mourning the loss of her time, of her dreams of greatness that had since fallen to the wayside in the wake of being Ronald Weasley’s wife, was something else entirely.

She’d given up so much over the years under the guise of compromise, the guise of ‘marital bliss’ they had never quite achieved. Limiting her hours at work in favour of more time spent at home, reducing her stress to maximize her chances of becoming the perfect little oven to bake a future Weasley child were all parts of his plan that she’d grudgingly agreed to. Hermione had wanted a family just as badly as Ron. She’d lost her parents to the complex memory charm that no one had ever been able to solve, and the promise of life anew, a family of her own, well... it was enchanting, to say the least. They’d tried and tried for years, seeing both muggle and magical doctors in their pursuit, but even with the clinical shagging and perfectly tilted hips at just the right time in her ovulation cycle, she’d never been able to conceive. 

That had been the deepest crack in the divide between her and her now ex-husband, but far from the first. 

She really should have known years earlier. Hell, if she’d allowed herself to admit it, she should have known before it ever started that Ronald Weasley was not her perfect match by a long shot. She liked to read, he didn’t. She craved stimulating conversation, he preferred to listen to the Wizard Wireless. She loathed sports in all forms and fashions, and he’d landed a spot on the Chudley Cannons as a Keeper despite his less than stellar try-out. Once, she’d been buzzed enough to speak her mind and made mention of his name and legacy playing a large part in his ability to join the team. He certainly hadn’t liked that. 

All in all, despite their differences, Hermione was aware enough to admit that she had, at one point, loved him. He’d been her best friend, her confidant, and she’d cherished that bond. She questioned, though, if she’d ever actually been  _ in love  _ with him.

The final crack that splintered into the canyon of their division was the hardest for her to think about. Through their two years of trying and failing to make a family, he’d gone off and done it himself with another witch. According to the murmurs she’d heard her last day at the Ministry, he’d been shagging Lavender for well over a year, and somehow, she was the only one unaware. 

Well, sod it all, she thought. He may have kept the house and half of their things, but at the very least she could always confidently say she’d been the one to end the charade of a marriage. When he’d confessed his indiscretion and begged for forgiveness, she’d never even humoured the idea of a reconciliation. 

Staring at the neatly printed parchment with the terms laid out before her, she decided she’d wallowed long enough. Rolling it up, she tied it back with the standard-issue ribbon, and promptly grabbed her wand to levitate the offending document. It spun and twirled in the air, at the mercy of her wand, dangling a foot above her head as she laid back against the blankets. 

Sod Ronald Weasley and his stupid bloody future with the daft bint he barely managed to shake off back at school. Narrowing her eyes, Hermione muttered a spell and watched as the perfectly rolled parchment burst into flames. Paper turned to ash, little by little, and the specks of burning embers floated above her. 

Well, that was that. 

* * *

“It’s been a week, ‘Mione, don’t you think you should unpack?”

Pushing the eggs around on her plate, Hermione shrugged. “Maybe. I think I’m going to skim the Prophet for adverts and try to find my own place soon. I just don’t see the need in unpacking it all just to wrap it back up and move it again.”

A warm palm covered her wrist, stilling her movements, and she looked up to find emerald eyes, creased with fine lines from the last decade staring back at her. “Stay awhile. It’s not like I’m planning to bring a witch in here any time soon and… well, it’s been nice having you around. It’s your place as much as mine, if you want.”

For the first time in weeks, Hermione’s lips quirked up in a lopsided smile. Harry just had this way of knowing her, of saying just the right thing at just the right time and pulling her from her own darker moments. “Okay.” Truth be told, the daunting task of finding her own place and living within four walls that housed only herself and her personal effects for the first time was intimidating. Living with Harry for a while wouldn’t be that bad. They’d done it before, only this time they’d have indoor plumbing. 

After all, he  _ was  _ her best friend.

* * *

After the divorce, Ron had sold their marital home and split the profits. Adding that sum to the vault already stuffed full of coin from her impressive pay and meagre spending habits from the last ten years, not to mention the sum she’d received post war for all her  _ ‘efforts,’ _ if she could even call them that, left her more than comfortable to take as much time off as she’d wanted. But, she hadn’t wanted to rest on her laurels and squander the days away. 

Twelve months came and went in a flash. With her previous experience at the Ministry, a new sense of purpose, and a renewed drive, Hermione landed a job early the next year. Snow still coated the cobblestone paths as she made her way to her first day at the new bookstore in Diagon Alley. 

Within six months, she practically ran the bustling shop. Only a few months later, she landed the title to actually do just that. 

Thirty-one had been good to her, and though Hermione still lived in the guest room of her best friend’s home, now with officially unpacked boxes and charms to cushion the thin walls and keep the chill at bay, she found herself happier than she’d been in years.

One thing had changed, though, from the prior December: Hermione had finally resolved to put herself out there. While Harry was good company, and she hadn’t felt the desire to rush off into another relationship, it was a bit lonely. Being married for a decade, she’d grown accustomed to having someone by her side, a friend at the end of the day, a warm body next to her in bed. Harry had, for the most part, filled those shoes. But the last one, the comfort of being held, of being a little less lonely, was a hole he couldn’t quite fill. Not that she’d asked him to. Not that she ever would.

“You ready?”

Hermione whipped around, curls bouncing over her shoulder as she leaned back from the dusty box they’d taken down from the attic. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Right. I’m ready.”

Pulling out a few ornaments, she stood and made her way over to the tree Harry had been battling for the last few hours. Though it still leaned a little to the right, and the branches weren’t stretched and formed to fill in the gaping holes yet, it looked utterly perfect in the corner of the sitting room. It was a tall evergreen, albeit fake because neither of them were really known for having a green thumb, and it towered over the room. Pinched between two fingers were a few ornaments that had been sitting up in the attic for the last few decades. 

His glasses were smudged, hair a bit wild, tufts of inky locks sticking up every which way, but a brilliant smile stretched between his cheeks, and she couldn’t help but grin in return. Slightly out of breath, with a bead of sweat tracking down his temple, he asked, “Where do you want to start?”

* * *

Two glass tumblers sat on the coffee table in front of Harry and Hermione. Sunk against the cushions of the couch, she laid her head on her best friend’s shoulder, nuzzling into his warmth when his arm swung around her shoulders. 

“Happy Christmas, ‘Mione.” Glints of the sparkling lights weaved around the tree reflected in his glasses. Hermione would typically feign ignorance, even to herself, about exactly how handsome Harry was, but in the glow of the tree with the pleasant thrum of firewhisky coursing through her veins, she allowed herself to appreciate him. The cut of his jaw, the warmth of his eyes, the bow of his lips. Objectively, everyone in the Wizarding World knew Harry had grown into a dashing man. The years had been more than kind to him, and the carefree spirit he’d had to bury time and again during the hellish phase of his life now shined through. 

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” she mumbled, leaning up to brush a soft kiss against his stubbly cheek. 

They’d always been close, closer than any other friend she’d ever had, and the comfort of being in his arms wasn’t a new sensation for her. The butterflies, however, fluttering deep in her belly when she pulled back just an inch, they  _ were  _ new. While she’d like to pretend that it was the whisky or the spirit of the season or any other equally asinine excuse, she knew that was far from the truth.

* * *

Thirty-two had been a wild ride for them both. 

Hermione had her fair share of dates, most ending after only one, and decidedly without a romp between the sheets, but there had been a Muggle man who’d courted her for a few months. Harry had dated, too. He’d been with a witch for a short period of time. Neither relationship had worked out, citing differences and time constraints and every other excuse under the sun. 

During either of their short-lived romances, though, she couldn’t help but notice inklings of some strange tension that seemed to creep across his shoulders when she’d straighten his tie or press a kiss to his cheek before wishing him a good day at work.

December, once again, found them on the couch in Grimmauld, a few drinks deep while watching the lights twinkle on the tree that he’d actually managed to level out this year.

“Rubbish,” he grumbled. Twisting around, he laid his forehead against hers, the pleasant tingle of his skin against her own sent a flurry of nerves rushing through her veins. “Did you know she once called me The Chosen One?”

Hermione snorted, leaning back and pushing a palm against her chest as she tried to quell the bubbling laughter. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I wish I was. It was in bed, too! I mean who does that, ‘Mione?!”

“I certainly wouldn’t.” The words slipped between her lips before she could even stop them and her eyes went wide. He didn’t need to know that she might have considered, a time or two, what it would be like to truly  _ be  _ with Harry. He didn’t need to know that when she charmed her room silent and warded the door, she’d sometimes whisper his name into the silence while her hand was buried between her legs. He certainly didn’t need to know that she’d finally accepted the fact that she’d fancied him for most of their friendship and envied any witch that clung to his arm.

“You wouldn’t?” Loosening his tie, Harry cleared his throat. A long moment of silence stretched between them as she toyed with the hem of her skirt. They were both still dressed from work, only a few hours into their weeklong vacation from the mundanity of daily life. They were close now, as Harry leaned his arm back across the couch and cupped her shoulder, no closer than normal, yet somehow the short distance felt suffocating. “And what might you say exactly?” 

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes bounced between his, watching the lights flicker in the emerald of his eyes. Damn him and that Gryffindor bravery he seemed to have in spades. “I,” she gulped, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “I don’t know,” she breathed, inching ever closer as Harry leaned in. There was barely a breath between them, small puffs of air mixing and mingling in the scant space. “Harry—”

He cut her off with the press of his lips, soft, sweet, a short kiss that lasted only a moment, but would somehow change every second that came after. She didn’t even think about it as she leaned in again, cupping his cheek and dragging him back into a firmer kiss. Pillowing her lips between his, she hummed as she scooted closer on the couch. The grip on her shoulder tightened as he pulled her against his chest, trailing his free hand down to her hip. She hadn’t snogged on a couch in… gods, she couldn’t even remember how long, but she certainly wasn’t stopping him now, not when his lips were curved in just the right way, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with purpose, with vigour. 

Bowing under the weight of his affection, she leaned back as Harry laid her down, her head resting on the arm and his chest pressed against her own. Heaving breaths between kisses, she carded her fingers through thick tufts of inky black hair. Though she’d dreamed of the texture of his kiss, the taste of his breath in her lungs, every fantasy paled in comparison to the reality of exactly how good he felt, how right it was for him to be crushed between her thighs, under her fingertips, curved against her being. 

Head still swimming from the drinks, she felt bold as she slid a hand along his shoulders, down the sweep of his spine, gripping his arse as she lifted her hips. In her younger years, Hermione might have blushed, embarrassed by the wanton sounds slipping from between parted lips, but after years of learning exactly what she liked and taking charge of her own pleasure more often than she’d had assistance, she couldn’t bring herself to care about the needy little noises. 

“Gods,” he heaved, huffing against her lips and pressing his forehead against her own. “I’ve wanted this—”

Kissing him silent, she decided she didn’t need to know exactly how long he’d wanted this, she could tell from the burgeoning erection pressed against her sex, from the weight of his gaze, and the feel of his fingertips digging into the soft flesh of her thigh. Somehow, saying it out loud made it all feel too real, and she wasn’t ready to deal with whatever that would mean when the sun rose the following day and they felt the need to qualify what exactly they had done and why. 

Just for once, just for the night, she wanted to learn every inch of taut flesh that covered his lean form. She wanted to memorize the feel of him against her, inside of her, pressing into her soft curves. She wanted to scream his name and feel her toes curl from the pressure of his touch. She wanted him and there were no words needed for her to say as much. 

Well, maybe just one. “Bed,” she mumbled. “Take me to bed.”

The dip of his Adam’s apple was entirely too distracting, the long column of his unblemished throat a blank canvas for her to scrawl her signature in searing kisses and suctioned lips. “Yeah. Right.” Fumbling in his pocket, Harry pulled out his wand, muttering something unintelligible before she felt the familiar pinching and squeezing of disapparition. 

It was brash, ripping his tie from his throat, tugging on the buttons of his shirt. It was quick, tearing her shirt above her head and gripping the band of her skirt before dragging it down. It was fast, and hard, and barely broken by kisses as they shed each layer in seconds flat. 

Her back landed against his bedsheets, legs still locked firmly around his hips, and she reached up in an instant, dragging his lips back down to hers before either had a chance to think too hard about exactly what was happening between them. Years of dreams, months of fantasies, and too much time had passed between them for this to feel anything at all but natural. 

While she hadn’t quite learned the feel of his jaw beneath her lips, she knew every cut and curve of it by sight. The muscles of his back were etched in her memory from shirtless nights spent wandering the house, but feeling them beneath her fingertips was an entirely new sensation. 

There was a stark difference between knowing someone, inside and out, and knowing the feel of them in the most intimate of moments, and though she couldn’t truly blame the firewhisky for the sudden turn of events, she longed to learn the lines of his body through touch alone. The scar just above his hip from a mission gone wrong during the war, the still puckered skin along the line of his shoulder from an accident in the field a few years before, all the little marks and scratches that littered his body, each and every one felt different to her fingertips, and she memorized each as she traced the evidence of a life lived on the edge across his body.

Intimately pressed together without a stitch of fabric between them, she felt his appraising gaze over every centimetre of her body as she squirmed against the soft sheets. “Harry—”

He tsked his tongue, a dark glaze coating his irises as he sat back on his knees, eyes skating over her splayed form. “Godric, Hermione, you’re bloody gorgeous.”

A light flush dusted her cheeks and she felt the warm tingle as it spread. She was confident in the way she looked, she’d grown into her awkward teenaged features and flourished in adulthood. The sway of her hips in the right pair of heels had even made her feel sexy on occasion, but never as much as she did in that very instant with Harry’s eyes drinking in the sight of her bare body spread wide, waiting, wanting, craving his touch. 

“C’mere.” Reaching forward, she tugged him down on top of her and the press of flesh against flesh sent her head spinning. 

Slow, languid kisses with tongues tangling and soft caresses of the newly bared skin gave way to grips, and grunts, moans of pleasure seeping from parted lips between consuming kisses. She could feel the weight of his length pressed against the lips of her sex, rocking gently against the slick skin. 

They weren’t horny teenagers grinding against one another, needing foreplay to amp up the moment. They were two friends with desire burning deep in her belly as she reached between them and wrapped a delicate hand around the base of his cock. He was longer than she’d imagined, thicker, heavier in her palm as she guided the tip of his cock through her sodden folds. One firm hand gripped her wild  curls , the other digging into the skin of her hip as a hiss of breath slipped between his clenched teeth. 

As much as she wanted to draw out the moment, make him come more than once before engaging the dance their bodies were begging for, she couldn’t wait another minute. Years of repressed desire surged through her, tingling in her veins and pumping alongside her pulse as she notched his tip at her entrance and canted her hips just so. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, not daring to move a centimetre. 

They’d always been like this, truly: bold and brash and brave in the moments when anyone else would have conceded. For that reason, she pulled back, pressing a palm to his chest and leaning up. Tossing a leg over his hip, she spun him against the mattress and kneeled above him. Strong hands held onto her hips as she rocked against his length, savouring the drag of his cock between the soaked lips of her cunt. 

Tilting forward just enough, she raised up a bit as Harry guided himself into her, cock standing at full attention as she sank down in one fluid movement. A moan tore from her throat at the stretch, the unfamiliar sting of him; Harry, her best friend, her lifelong crush, buried to the hilt inside of her. 

Sinking into the skin of his chest, she raked her nails across his flesh as she rose up, dropping back down again in a slow, sensual dip. Mumbled affirmations, and muddled groans swam between them as they found a steady rhythm. It felt brilliant, it felt divine, it felt as though she’d float away on a cloud of bliss and reach heights she’d never dreamed before. There was a sense of peace in knowing the other person in this intimate dance was someone she knew so well. But knowing him, and knowing how he felt stretching her and panting against her flushed skin were two entirely different things. 

His hips would snap, hers would stutter, and they continued on as the pace picked up to maddening speeds. The slap of skin and guttural groans were the only sounds breaking through the hazy fog of lust that coated her entire being. She’d never imagined it could be quite like this, quite so surreal. 

Creeping up on her peak, she pressed her chest against his, slanting her mouth over his parted lips and lavishing him in languorous kisses, sucking the very breath from his lungs. Harry’s hips tilted up as he pressed his feet flat against the mattress, one hand gripping the jut of her hip as the other snuck between them to find the pulsing nub at the apex of her sex. “Come,” he breathed. “Come for me.”

And she did. With only a few flicks of deft fingertips, she careened off the edge of her cliff and felt him follow only seconds later, her cunt milking every last drop of his spend with fluttering walls and murmured words of adoration. 

Rolling off of him, she landed on her back, sucking in heaving breaths and soaking in the aftermath of their unexpected coupling. Of all the gifts she’d ever received for Christmas, having Harry beside her, a sheen of sweat from the earlier exertion still painting every dip and curve of his bare body, was by far the best.

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” she whispered, twisting onto her side and tamping down the nerves threatening to overtake her momentary happiness.

“Happy Christmas, Hermione,” he breathed, leaning forward to capture her lips in a kiss that spoke of no regrets. A kiss full of promise. 

That night, as well as each and every subsequent night, found them between the sheets of his bed, and sometimes even hers, whispering words of love, and promises of the life that still lay ahead. 

* * *

_ It was always you _

_ Falling for me _

_ Now there's always time _

_ Calling for me _

_ I'm the light blinking at the end of the road _

_ Blink back to let me know _

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks are in order for my lovely alphas [@mcal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcal/pseuds/mcal) & [@ladykenz347](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladykenz347/pseuds/ladykenz347). You ladies are invaluable! Both of them are putting out works of their own this month that I promise are _fantastic_ so make sure to check out their authors' pages as well! 
> 
> [Msmerlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmerlin/pseuds/msmerlin) is a saint for putting up with my request to read this at an ungodly hour and helping me whip it into shape. Additional thanks to my lovely beta [tofadawayagain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofadeawayagain/pseuds/tofadeawayagain). Thank you for the time and care you put into editing this! 
> 
> Come find me on tumblr [@dreamsofdramione](https://dreamsofdramione.tumblr.com)!
> 
> I've never written Harmony before but I've adored them for ages so I hope you enjoyed this! 
> 
> Last but not least, THANK YOU ALL for reading! Comments & kudos **always appreciated!**


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